Indigo Moon (7 page)

“I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me,” she quoted from Shelley, much to her delight. The classics were a linchpin to her identity. Somehow she had turned a corner.

The kitchen fascinated her. Ren obviously spent time in here. It had a lived-in homely feel like the living room. Although the cupboards were battered and the paint chipped and scratched, like the rest of the cabin it was a well-loved, well-used space. Pestles and mortars, measuring cups, and stirring spoons littered the work surface. Dried herbs hung from hooks fixed in the low ceiling beams. Enormous, dented copper pans sat washed and ready on the huge, cream enameled stove that looked like a relic from the fifties. Rows and rows of jar-lined shelves filled the far wall over a scoured work counter. Most were filled with herbs and oils, and all were labeled in a scrawling, uninhibited handwriting she assumed was Ren’s.

A thick, dog-eared volume on medicinal herbalism lay open on the countertop. Isabelle hovered over it, compelled by the beautiful plant illustrations to leaf through it and examine the pages in detail. It was an old almanac, a mixture of First Nation medicines, moon cycles, botany, and horticulture. Its spine gave the year as 1961, an exclusive, limited edition judging by the fine quality of the paper and the richness of the binding and illustrations. The flyleaf showed an inscription from the author: “To my darling niece, Dalia, with much love…” The name was heavily scored out with a sharp instrument, like a knife, but Isabelle could just make out enough letters to guess at “Sylvie.” The book had been written by a Sylvie Garoul. Isabelle wondered if it was a gift from the author. It was a first edition collectable if only for the illustrations alone. They were quite superb, the work of one George Brookman, a name that rang a bell with her, but she couldn’t remember any details. The book was too precious to be lying around a messy kitchen. Already it had stains all over it.

Isabelle reluctantly set the book aside as the kettle whistled. She picked a lemon and ginger tea from a home-blend mixture she assumed Ren had made, and cup in hand, set off to explore the rest of the cabin. If she wanted answers she’d damned well have to provide them for herself.

The living room was cozy, and she whiled away a pleasant half hour sipping tea and examining the books in the wobbly bookcase. Most were secondhand and were much read. But their covers had a creased softness and the subtle smell of a million fingerprints and a hundred shelves. The old bureau was crammed with invoices and paperwork for Ren’s veterinary practice and what looked like a farming venture she ran nearby. A door to the left of the chimneybreast drew Isabelle’s attention. She drifted over to it, cup in hand, and gave it a gentle push.

Ren’s bedroom was tucked away off the main living room. Isabelle stood inside the doorway drinking in the detail. It was a total mess. What clothes weren’t hanging out of the chest of drawers lay in a tangled ball on the unmade bed. The armoire door hung open, its full-length mirror catching the light from the hallway behind her. A jumble of shoes and shirts spilled from it onto the floor. Only the dressing table gave a clue as to the usual order of the room and reflected the general tidiness of the rest of the cabin. Though the drawers hung open, the surface was uniform and neat. Combs and brushes lay beside handcrafted wooden bowls filled with loose change and stray buttons. An antique leather manicure set and a few colored glass bottles took up the rest of the space. The only closed drawer in the dresser was locked. This was curious in itself, given the general upheaval of the other drawers. Isabelle shook the handle several times and looked for the key in the small bowls on the countertop, but to no avail. She gave up and turned her attention to an empty suitcase wide open on the bedside chair.

Had Ren been hurriedly packing to go somewhere? The thought made Isabelle anxious. A road map lay unfolded inside the case. Pushed on by her unease, Isabelle lifted it. A red marker pen traced a journey from Lonesome Lake, over to Bella Coola, and down across the U.S./Canada border straight to Portland, Oregon. She set it back and frowned. The journey meant something to her. She’d traveled that way before. But Lonesome Lake? That was miles east of Bella Coola in the middle of Tweedsmuir National Park. Ren had said they were in the Coast Mountains, but given the sheer size of the mountain range, they could be anywhere.

Isabelle dropped the map back in the suitcase. It wasn’t that much of a clue after all. She turned her attention to the bottles on the dressing table. All held homemade lotions and looked medicinal rather than cosmetic. There was a heavy, languorous scent in the bedroom and she tried to identify it. She unscrewed a bottle top and sniffed the contents. It reminded her of the ointment on her shoulder, but it wasn’t the smell she was now fixed upon. That scent was stronger on the hairbrush, and she realized it belonged to Ren. It was her scent.

Isabelle drifted over to the wide unmade bed. She lifted a shirtsleeve and pressed it against her nose to confirm the scent was definitely Ren’s. The cloth was crisp and clean and held a thousand stories. Like fine wine against her palate, the flavors exploded onto her senses and her imagination galloped.

Ren’s hot, peppery scent was subtlety layered with cherry and cool notes of vanilla. It drifted through her like opium smoke. She closed her eyes and saw sweat-slick skin, tight and tan, stretching in the sun, then contracting and twisting into swaths of ink-black fur that rippled like waves of prairie grass. She felt dense muscle weigh down her bones and heard the snap of twigs as her feet sank in heavy loam. Wind rattled the leaves and hissed through fir needles, and ran through her coat like a million stroking fingers. Fine rain misted her face and she flicked her ears against the damp. Her lungs expanded as she drew in more and more of Ren’s scent and the heady visions that came with it.

Her heart hitched into a tight knot of want, and suddenly she needed Ren. Why had she left her? Why hadn’t she told her where she was going and when she’d be back? Isabelle frowned, and a discontented growl rumbled in the back of her throat. She pulled her face away from the cotton shirt and scowled at it. She didn’t want to sleep alone; she wanted the heat of Ren’s body. She wanted to drift into dreams with this scent wrapped all around her. She took a corner of the cuff into her mouth and sucked, her teeth worrying the fabric.

Wire grass crackled with summer heat. The drooping heads of lady’s slipper and clumps of purple violet shivered in a lazy breeze. Insects droned in a crown around her head—Isabelle spat out the fabric and stared at it in disbelief. She had been chewing on the sleeve like a pup on a slipper. What the hell was happening to her? Had she lost her mind?

Her tongue smacked against the roof of her mouth, wanting more. She recalled the images that had flashed through her head, as exciting and vivid as if she had really been sprawled out in a hazy summer meadow. It was addictive. She raised the shirt to her nose and breathed in. She felt sunshine dancing against her eyelids and heard the high-pitched trill of waxwings circling above.

A flicker of movement from the window startled her. The flicker was followed by a rustle as something dropped out of sight under the windowsill. Isabelle crept cautiously toward the window, her bare feet silent on the floor. Something or someone was outside. She heard the crunch of footsteps on fresh snow and held her breath. Pressed against the wall, she angled her head to peek out, but the glass tricked her and reflected back the light shining from the hallway. She could see nothing but the shadowy bedroom mirrored back at her…and then, she saw it. Distorted by the weak interior light, two eyes, elongated and slanted, glowed like burning embers as they glared through the glass. They darted from side to side searching the room for her. Isabelle began to make out other details—a pointed ear and a curved canine tooth, and a wet snout. She was alarmed that a wild animal would come so close to the cabin, but she felt safe enough inside the stout walls.

The animal’s ears flattened, and with a sharp hiss, the face was gone from the window. Isabelle started, but saw what had spooked it. Across the room, she stood reflected in the armoire mirror, clearly visible from the window. Pressed against the wall, wide-eyed and fearful, she looked like some sort of half-crazed animal herself.

She glanced out the window and stared into the night. She could see nothing. Isabelle shivered. She was about to give up and turn away when a blur on the edge of the tree line caught her eye. Something crouched in the murk. As she watched, it lifted its head toward the cabin as if sampling the air. It hesitated for a moment, then slunk into the underbrush and melted away. From what she could make out it looked like a small wolf or a wildcat. Whatever it was, it moved like a predator and was bold enough to come right up to a human dwelling.

A wavering, reedy howl echoed close by in the darkness and was answered by a distant chorus from the hills beyond. A chill ran through her. It was wilderness out there, and she was miles from civilization. She had best remember that and hope the thaw came soon. She had to get out of here and find the missing pieces of her life. The questions were mounting and the answers were few…and selective.

Isabelle was curled up on the sofa when Ren came back.
Frankenstein
lay open on her lap and Ren’s shirt was pillowed under her head. The quiet click of the door jerked her out of her fire-gazing stupor. She sat upright, groggy and disheveled. Ren appeared at her side and reached out to touch her shoulder. The night air clung to her clothes.

“Hey. Why are you sleeping out here? Is the bedroom too cold? I can put a heater—”

“There was an animal at the window,” Isabelle said. Ren’s hand stilled.

“An animal?”

“Yes. It ran off when it saw me.” Isabelle felt awkward. What if Ren asked more questions and she had to admit she was snooping in her room…sucking on her clothes and acting weird.

“Just nosy, I suppose.”

“Huh?” Isabelle started with guilt.

“The animal. Just being nosy. Lots of deer and elk come close. They’re curious by nature, probably hoping to sniff out dinner in my garden,” Ren said. “Under all that snow I’ve got some very tasty rosebushes.”

“It had teeth. Big pointy ones. Elk and deer don’t have pointy teeth.”

“Oh?” Ren hesitated, as if unsure what to say to that.

“It ran away when it saw me.”

“Ah. Okay.” She seemed satisfied with this. “I’ll check for tracks in the morning.”

Isabelle shuffled upright, and Ren perched on the edge of the couch beside her and began to unlace her boots.

“Why won’t you answer my questions?” Isabelle jumped right into the subject that had been burning her up all evening. She had to know.

“What makes you think I know all the answers?”

“Stop playing with me. You said you didn’t want me to go home. You said it wasn’t safe.”
You said I had to stay here with you
.

“I’m not playing with you. Look at your face. Some of those injuries go way back. Beyond the car crash.”

Isabelle touched her bruised face. It was true. She had seen her broken nose and the scar on her lip and knew they were old wounds. She’d even recalled the whining voice begging for forgiveness.

“Your arm’s been broken before, too,” Ren said, then shifted uncomfortably. “Isabelle. Your husband beat you and  you started a divorce,” she stated bluntly. “You came to Canada to get away from it all.”

“I came here from Portland, didn’t I?” Isabelle remembered the map lying open on Ren’s suitcase. Ren looked surprised but nodded in reluctant agreement.

“So I’m married? How long was I married?”

“A year maybe. Not long. You knew you’d made a mistake pretty quick.” The answer was brusque, and Isabelle surveyed Ren carefully. Ren was uncomfortable with the conversation. She pulled hard on her laces and kicked off her boots.

“How do
we
know each other?” Isabelle tried another approach. “Where did we meet? Here or in Portland?”

This was the most information she’d gotten out of Ren and she was anxious for the flow to continue, but already she could see the defensive shutters coming down. Ren was building another wall of shadows between them. Her gaze shifted around the room, she seemed unable to look at Isabelle. She stood and moved to the fire, unease pouring off her. Isabelle watched her and surmised that while Ren was not lying to her, she was being selective in what she chose to reveal.

Ren knelt by the hearth and stared at the dying embers, She made as if to reach in for something, but with a quick sideways glance at Isabelle turned her back on the fire and began to talk.

“We met in the Bella Coola Valley. There’s not much to say, and you’ll remember it all soon enough. Your aunt has a holiday lodge in Hagensborg. You were staying with her and we met when I called over with Atwell’s medication.”

“My aunt?” This was exciting news.

“Mary Palmer.”

Isabelle frowned.
Mary Palmer
. The name wasn’t familiar and that disappointed her. “Who’s Atwell?”

“Her Pomeranian. He’s got diabetes.”

“Oh.” Isabelle blinked. Aunt Mary had a sick dog. “Poor Atwell. Maybe we can go visit when the roads are passable?” The thought of nearby family cheered her up, but already Ren was shaking her head.

“Mary left already. She was only here to lock up for the winter.”

“Oh.” Isabelle felt gutted. “Have I any other family in Bella Coola?”